Brotherly Love
by Dweo
Summary: When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes must have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what he never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Prologue**

On a desk somewhere in New Scotland Yard lies a small black book. The Little Book of Horrors, as they call it. It contains a list, a simple list of names, and whenever somebody wants to remember or perhaps forget, they write down a name, a hobby, an age. Sometimes there are little drawings, sometimes there are loving remarks, and sometimes there is nothing but a location.

When the book, the written proof of the human side of all the cases that shape their lives, is full, it disappears, burnt, drowned, used for target practice. And it helps them do their job, never really forgetting but forever going on.

**Chapter One**

When people say that the day he met Sherlock Holmes must have been the most incredible day of his life, he agrees. But what he never tells them is that it had very little to do with Sherlock.

DI Gabriel Lestrade, Lestrade to friends, enemies and at this point even his mother, had not been prepared for the chaos at the Yard that morning. It appeared about half the Metropolitan Police was trying to get coffee from the lone working coffee machine on his floor. Deciding to give up before even trying to get his morning fix, he simply crashed onto his chair.

"What's this circus?" he asked the room at large.

"Briefing in ten minutes," Donovan, one of his new sergeants, said, handing him his coffee mug with a smile. He was going to like her. She already knew how to preserve her safety and sanity when faced with a caffeine-deficient Lestrade.

"What's it this time?" Lestrade groaned.

"I've no idea, but it's big," Donovan said. "They've called in half the Met."

"I noticed," Lestrade said sarcastically as he felt the caffeine flow through his veins.

Several minutes later, with his coffee gone and really desperate for a second cup, he followed the long line into the biggest conference room in the building. It seemed they had every constable, sergeant and inspector on the force in there. There was a little bit of room left at the back, giving Lestrade the perfect spot to watch the goings on at the front without drawing unwanted attention to himself.

It was then he noticed something out of place in the room. On the opposite side of the room, also in a prime spot to notice but not be noticed, stood a man. At first glance he looked like a civil servant, sharply dressed, umbrella in his hand, a man who wanted to look unnoticeable. For some reason John Steed came to Lestrade's mind. The only thing missing from the picture was a bowler hat. But the way he held himself told Lestrade the man was in fact something else, something more powerful, something frightening. Lestrade spent most of the briefing watching the man. Why would a civil servant, even a powerful one, be present at a Met briefing?

Okay, it might be about the biggest drugs bust they'd had in years, but still.

Lestrade spent the rest of the meeting studying the man, not getting any closer to an answer. The briefing ended just as Lestrade had time to refocus to hear his people being appointed to a team that would take on a house somewhere in the West End.

* * *

The whole raid turned out to be rather tame. There was of course some resistance, but within fifteen minutes the team had thirteen junkies standing outside, dressed in all sorts of shabby clothes and of different level of awareness. Now it was Lestrade's job to collect any evidence left. The house looked like a herd of elephants had crashed through it, and he sighed. He hated cases like this because they seldom yielded anything useful, and the buildings always stank. The first order was to check the rooms to make sure there was nothing of interest left. They reached the upper level, looking at the peeling wall paper, the knocked-down walls, the filthy mattresses. The whole building stank of neglect. If he took a good look, he was certain he'd see rats scurrying away.

Lestrade moved carefully, keeping Donovan close by his side. They said they had arrested all those inside and this was just the sweep, but his instinct told him to be careful.

He walked into a small room, not more than a cupboard. Donovan stopped in the adjacent room, lifting up a mattress with a look of disgust on her face. The small room was empty at first sight, and in later years he would always wonder what had made him look up, but look up he did. There in the dark, two eyes were looking down at him. He made a startled move, and for a few short moments he thought a giant bat came sailing down, knocking him to the floor. The next moment a knife was pushed against his throat.

"Don't move," a low voice growled. "One move, and the knife will cut right through your carotid artery." Lestrade tried to get a good view of the figure crouching above him. The knife against his throat was held by a thin, pale hand, clean, well manicured. The hand was attached to a bony wrist, too thin, and encased in a very expensive-looking sleeve. Lestrade tried to avoid looking into his assailant's eyes: you never knew with junkies what their reaction to that would be. So instead he looked carefully up, starting at the top.

Hair short, almost military, clean. Surprising; clean wasn't a word he would normally use to describe junkies.

Razor-sharp cheekbones enhanced by sunken cheeks. Handsome mouth. Not traditionally good-looking, but more the kind of junkie look you would find on a model.

Long neck, unbuttoned shirt, expensive. Dark suit, also expensive. Much more the typical city boy than the kind of guy you'd expect in a rundown crack house.

"What do you think will happen if you cut me?" Lestrade rather stupidly asked, throwing all his 'You do not antagonise the junkie holding a knife to your throat' sense out of the window.

"Nothing; none of the people close by are carrying weapons, and even if they were, they'd shoot me, but that wouldn't help you. You would bleed to death within a minute." The words were callous, careless. And Lestrade realised the man on top of him didn't care about his own life, which made him even more dangerous than the average criminal.

"You don't seem the type to have a death wish," Lestrade said.

"I don't. Well, it would be more interesting than holding you at knife point." The man locked eyes with Lestrade's, and he felt like he was being dissected. The man's pupils were dilated, but even though he was high as a kite, his eyes seemed to say he was smarter than Lestrade could ever imagine.

"Interesting,' Lestrade said, slowly bringing his left foot up, planting it firmly on the ground, "You're bored by this?" He knew he sounded rather incredulous.

"Of course; the cocaine normally takes the edge off, helps me concentrate, but this whole raid thing has broken the spell. If you could refrain from doing that again, it would be good." Lestrade stared at the man, speechless for a moment.

"You're asking us to stop raiding crack houses because it bores you."

"Basically." The man sounded altogether too calm for a man holding a knife to a police officer's neck. That was the moment Lestrade decided to take matters into his own hands, since nobody else seemed to be doing anything.

"You sound like a petulant five year old," he said. His distraction strategy seemed to work as the man snorted indignantly.

So Lestrade brought his hand up in a flash, hitting the man's hand with force, knocking the knife away from his throat and bringing his left knee up to the man's crotch, flipping them over using the momentum. He was sitting on him, the knife out of reach of the man's hand. The man made a valiant effort to grab the knife. So Lestrade flipped the junkie down onto his stomach, his right arm pulled high up his back, his left trapped under his body. Lestrade's knee pressed the man's cheek to the ground.

"I don't like it when people hold knives to my throat." To Lestrade's surprise the man smirked at those words. He didn't seem to worry much when they put the handcuffs on, clearly knowing the drill, and he looked positively bored when he was pushed into line with the others. Lestrade finally relaxed as the man was escorted away. There was something about a close brush with death that made him feel alive.

* * *

Lestrade moved his hands through his hair, making it stick up even worse than before. The lack of coffee and the nightmare of paperwork in front of him made him wish he had chosen a less demanding job, caretaker or something.

They hadn't even tried to send him home after what had happened, and he was glad, because he really didn't want to go to the cold, empty flat. It hadn't really felt like home since Thomas had died.

Lestrade opened the file, looking at the idiot who had tried to slit his throat. Apparently his name was Sherlock Holmes. He snorted softly; somebody's parents had hated him.

"Let's see what records we have on you." He expected some minor offences, perhaps some minor drugs charges. He didn't seem the kind that would go unnoticed, and he had known the drill slightly too well for it to have been his first offence. It took the archives a few moments before suddenly a list with case numbers and names started to appear on his screen.

"Damn, look at this." Lestrade stared as the number of records kept growing until there were more than a 100 cases that came up in connection with Sherlock Holmes. Donovan stopped writing her own report and stood behind him, her mouth dropping open as she looked at list.

"There are four murders on just the first page. Click on that one," she said, pointing to one of the murder cases.

Lestrade read the short note it contained.

Arrested on suspicion of murder, released the next day after the apprehension of another suspect.

They discovered a disturbing pattern in the cases. Holmes would be mentioned in a case as a witness, then as a suspect, and then there would be a short note explaining his release, sometimes due to the lack of evidence, but most of the times because the real perpetrator had been found and arrested.

"How old did you say he was?" Donovan asked as she pointed to the oldest case.

"27," Lestrade answered as he opened it.

"Then why is there a case from 1989 on here? He must have been what, eleven or something? Besides, I didn't know old cases like that were in here already."

"Oh God." Lestrade clicked on some of the older cases, fifteen-year-old cases, ten-year-old cases. A horrified feeling settle in his stomach as realisation hit him.

"At least forty of those cases took place when he was a minor. He was just a kid when these happened," he said softly.

"Who is he?" Donovan's face showed a similar look of horror as Lestrade's.

"A very bored man." The cultured voice made them spin around. The man who should have had a bowler hat stood in the doorway.

"Sergeant Donovan, would you mind leaving DI Lestrade and me for a moment."

"Sir?" Donovan looked at Lestrade, curiosity on her face.

"Go and get some coffee for us from that new place down the road," Lestrade said, a resigned look on the woman's face showed that she wasn't happy with him. But Donovan didn't say anything and walked past him, looking worried.

"Please explain who you are and what's going on. I've had a rather trying day. I spent my day in a rundown crack house, a junkie tried to slit my throat, and there is no coffee left in the whole building, and believe me I've looked. So I don't have a lot of patience left."

"I'm here to retrieve my brother's possessions." The man sat down uninvited, looking completely at ease under Lestrade's angry stare.

"Your brother's possessions? You're telling me you're Holmes's brother?"

"Yes, and I'm very grateful to the Met for getting him out of that awful building." Realisation hit Lestrade.

"You arranged it; you made sure we'd take down that house, just so we'd get your brother out."

"Of course, Inspector." Holmes looked impressed, like he hadn't expected Lestrade to realise what was going on.

"Who are you?"

"Mycroft Holmes." If the situation hadn't been so absurd already the name would have made it so. Their parents really had had the cruellest sense of humour.

"You do realise I can't release your brother's possessions yet? They're evidence in his case." Lestrade leaned on the desk, looking down on the man sitting too relaxed in the chair across him.

"What case?"

Lestrade looked incredulous at those words. "What case? He was found in a crack house in the possession of drugs. Oh yeah, and there's the small matter of the fact he tried to cut my throat."

"Minor offences, don't you agree?"

"Minor?" Lestrade wanted to wring the other man's neck to get the smug look off his face.

"Yes, minor, because you will not charge him with assault." Holmes's voice had dropped a few octaves, suddenly sounding extremely dangerous, proving Lestrade's feeling this wasn't a man to play with.

"Of course I won't charge him with assault. Attempted murder on the other hand…" Lestrade looked at the man defiantly. A look of respect suddenly appeared in the man's eyes. He clearly wasn't used to people standing up to him.

"You do realise what I can do to you?"

"No, but I can guess. It doesn't matter. I don't like idiots like your brother running freely on the street."

"How is your flat? It must feel empty after Thomas died."

Lestrade felt his heart freeze. "How," he stammered.

"Oh, I know more about you, Gabriel Lestrade, much more." There was a clear threat in the voice. "I know about your ex-boyfriend, the one who hit you, before he ended up in hospital under suspicious circumstances. I know about the accident that killed that rapist two years ago."

Panic made breathing difficult. Those were his secrets, things that would cost him his job and probably land him in prison if somebody wanted.

"Don't worry, Inspector. You're so much more useful here. I would just prefer it if my brother wasn't here."

"I can't," Lestrade said.

"Of course you can, and if you're worried about my brother getting off lightly, believe me when I say that nothing you can do to my brother can ever…impress him like I can." Lestrade suddenly felt sorry for the junkie

"I can't let him go. I need his statements; we'll need everything we can get on the dealers." Lestrade wasn't giving up without a fight. No matter what the man informed him he had on him he still was a cop. Justice was still his ultimate goal even if he was sometimes prepared to take shortcuts.

"Ah of course, Mister Van Wijk. Don't worry about him. He will be taken care of." The finality in the man's voice told Lestrade he would release Sherlock Holmes no matter what the officer part of his mind protested.

"Please hand my brother this. I would prefer it if he didn't bring in any unwanted guests." Mycroft threw him a bag that said I might look simple and understated but what I hold costs more than what you make in a month.

With a sigh Lestrade took it, leaving the other man standing in his office, looking thoughtful.

* * *

"Get changed." Lestrade threw the suit at Holmes. "You're being released."

"What?" Holmes sat up, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise. He looked too attentive, too aware of his surroundings for a junkie who only two hours ago had been arrested high as a kite. He looked bored again, a cold impassive mask on his face now making it impossible to read his true emotions.

"You heard me," Lestrade said, ignoring the sharp eyes looking him over.

"He's here, isn't he? This was all his doing." Holmes sounded bitter.

"Just get changed," Lestrade sighed.

"You dropped the charges." The words sounded angry, but there was a trace of something else in his voice, and it made Lestrade look up. The cold mask on the other man's face had dropped for a second, showing both annoyance, and to Lestrade's surprise, fear. Apparently he wasn't the only one who realised the mild-mannered civil servant might be the most dangerous man in the world. And he was suddenly glad he had dropped the charges. Nothing the law could have done to Holmes would have hurt him like this.

"Yes, I dropped the charges, and I didn't want to, but I think that might have been the right decision after all." The only reply was an inscrutable look.

Ten minutes later Lestrade dropped Holmes off in the hall into the waiting arms of his brother. If looks could kill, Lestrade would have had a nice crime scene in the middle of the Yard. But since they didn't, Holmes was left with glaring angrily at his brother. Lestrade just shook his head and walked away from the front desk, letting the two brothers fight it out, glad he would never have to hear the name Holmes again.

* * *

Lestrade sat down at his desk with a sigh. The crime scene he had just left had been the final straw that had turned a merely bad week into the worst week in a long time. The raids earlier in the week had resulted in more paperwork than even the most enthusiastic pen pusher could handle. And now somebody had gone and made it all redundant, all their hard work, all the months of preparation made superfluous.

Letting out another sigh, just to let the world know how displeased he was with its current state, he pulled out the Little Black Book he had taken from Gregson's desk. And started to write.

Benjamin van Wijk,

Drugs baron

Shot to the back of the head

Executed


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

He first noticed the black car when he left the crime scene. The car looked discreet and eerily so. His instinct told him to be wary. He wasn't the only one who noticed the car. Sherlock Holmes was standing to the side, looking extremely surly at being denied access to the crime scene. It was clear he had noticed the car too, since an intense glare was aimed at it.

For a short moment he thought he had just imagined it, but he trusted his instincts, and his instincts told him the black car was following him. He knew he should walk to his own car and leave or even call back-up, but something made him keep walking and do the least sensible thing you can do when being followed. He acknowledged the car with a nod and walked down a small side street. Of course, he knew the area well and also knew the car would get stuck, and he could escape on foot from the other end. But he was curious and waited for the car to come to a halt. A rather burly looking chauffeur got out, and even without Lestrade's years of experience he would have known the man was armed and could kill him without blinking an eye.

Lestrade felt his muscles tense, so he fought down his body's flight instinct. The man nodded to Lestrade as he opened the back door rather more politely than expected.

"Please enter the car, Detective Inspector Lestrade. We're already late." Lestrade decided asking what they were late _for_ would probably not yield a useful answer, so he complied with a sigh.

"Thank you," the man said politely as he closed the car door. Lestrade had limited experience of being kidnapped, but he knew this must be the politest kidnapper in the world.

The car drove for about fifteen minutes. The tinted windows didn't allow even the smallest beam of light into the car. He tried to follow the route they were following, but the ride was so smooth he was certain he had missed more turns than he liked, which left him feeling completely disorientated. When the car finally came to a smooth, easy stop, Lestrade felt his heart beat in his throat. The still too-polite kidnapper opened his door and waited patiently for him to step out of the car.

"If you would please enter the club, he'll be waiting for you." Lestrade looked around at these words. The first thing he noticed was that they were in a public place. Always a good sign. The second thing he noticed was that he knew exactly where he was. Also a good sign. And the third thing he noticed was the fact that the club the driver had meant was the Diogenes club.

"Oh shit," he murmured under his breath.

The Diogenes club was the worst kept secret in modern London. Founded in the nineteenth century, it was the most exclusive gentlemen's club in London, and perhaps even the world, although gentlemen's club was no longer the appropriate term as these days women were welcome too. The legends about the club were plenty. The membership was selective, extremely so, and neither money nor power could buy your way into the club. None of this did anything to ease Lestrade's apprehension one bit.

He walked up to the door, the sleek black car still waiting at the kerb; no doubt it would stay there until he was inside. He raised his hand to knock, resigned at the oddest thing that had happened to him in the last few months. The door, of course, opened before his knuckles made contact with the wood.

A man dressed as a butler and built like a bouncer opened the door.

"Welcome, Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, "He is waiting for you in the Stranger's room. Allow me to take you coat." And before Lestrade could even say a word, the other man had already removed his coat.

Then a woman suddenly appeared out of nowhere, waiting politely. She was dressed like a hostess, but looked like she could snap his neck like a twig.

"If you'd please follow me." She sounded cultured, slightly posh, but there was a trace of a northern accent left. There was something that screamed 'posh education' to him. Lestrade suspected the woman had more degrees after her name than he could ever dream of. He followed her in silence into a big room, done up in Victorian style. It was warm, cosy and stylish. And as he saw the figure in the corner of the room, everything fell into place.

There, at a table laid for afternoon tea, sat Mycroft Holmes, pouring tea in the surprisingly modern cup in front of an empty chair.

"I'm glad you could join me for tea, Inspector." Mycroft sounded polite and pleasant, but Lestrade detected a steely trace in the voice that told him to obey, never mind how much he wanted to turn and run away.

"You do realise there are steep penalties for kidnapping police officers?" Lestrade said calmly, as he sat down.

"Kidnap, Inspector? It's just a friendly invitation to tea." Mycroft held a tray with sandwiches out to Lestrade, who decided it couldn't get any more surreal and so simply took one.

"Do you always invite people by having a large black car stalking them?"

"Usually? Yes," Mycroft said calmly, putting a small sandwich on the no doubt very expensive plate in front of him. "Although normally there isn't tea to be had." There was so much threat in his voice Lestrade felt his hairs stand on end, and he couldn't suppress the shudder running through his body.

"Why did you invite me for tea?" Lestrade decided he wasn't in the mood for niceties; being kidnapped did that to his patience.

"My brother," Mycroft said simply.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked surprised.

"Yes, Sherlock. I wasn't aware I had more than one brother, Inspector." Mycroft sounded haughty. "We can't all be blessed with a large family. What is it, three sisters and two brothers?"

"How…" Lestrade felt the thrill of fear run down his spine again.

"As I've already told you, I know more about you, Inspector, than you could ever hide." Again the threat was there in the calm and pleasant voice. "But I didn't invite you to talk about you, not today." To Lestrade's surprise there was something that sounded like regret in Mycroft's voice this time. "It's my brother I'm worried about. I understand he appeared on a crime scene today. Again."

"Yes, the bloody nuisance did almost ruin a crime scene, before I could send him away."

"That was precisely what I wanted to talk about." Mycroft offered a perfect looking scone to Lestrade.

"The fact that I sent him away?" Lestrade asked, his annoyance growing slowly. His hand automatically took a scone.

"Yes. I would prefer it if you wouldn't do that again." The clotted cream was offered almost as a bribe.

"You can't be serious. I can't let him onto a crime scene. All the evidence would be contaminated. Just like it was in the last two cases your brother got involved in. It was sheer luck there was enough other evidence to get a conviction."

"Without my brother there wouldn't have been any court case at all."

"You can't know that," Lestrade protested, but in his heart he knew Mycroft was right.

"I can't, but the chances are in my favour. But I understand his presence will raise unwanted questions and problems. That's why I invited you here."

"He's a junkie," Lestrade said, desperately wondering why such a brilliant, powerful man kept protecting a washed-up addict. "An infuriatingly brilliant junkie, but a junkie nevertheless." For the first time Lestrade saw true emotion on the stoic face, and a flash of pain made Lestrade regret his words.

"I'm sorry." He apologised not for his words, but for hurting the man in front of him.

"You're right. My brother is an addict, and that is why I need you. At the moment his addiction is drugs; cocaine. He is addicted because his mind never stops; only when solving a puzzle, a crime is his mind focussed. It's when he has nothing to focus on, things go wrong. Dangerously so. Then he finds other ways to stop the boredom, other ways to stop the thoughts, to focus his mind."

"His cocaine?" Lestrade asked.

"Yes, and his cigarettes, his guns, his risk taking." Mycroft looked lost in thought for a moment. "I think having him assist you, the police, will help him. Save him from himself."

"Yeah, but I think saving your brother from himself at the cost of having murders walk free won't work in the real world." Lestrade poured himself another tea, drinking it as he watched the older Holmes brother stare at him for a moment.

"Yes, I know. That's why I had my assistant draft this." At those words, several papers were pushed towards him. "You'll find these are Sherlock's credentials, stating he's an independent consultant, a published forensic scientist. Should the need arise you can always use this."

"You faked this?" Lestrade asked, too afraid to touch the papers.

"I didn't have to. Sherlock was first published when he was eighteen, just after he finished his first year at university."

"I hate it when somebody with so much potential wastes it," Lestrade said with a sigh.

"I agree, so why not use him?" Lestrade knew he was being manipulated into doing Mycroft's bidding again.

"Okay, I can accept this, but why hasn't Sherlock used this information before?"

"He probably forgot about it. He never cared about this, other than showing off, proving he is smarter than the rest of the world." Mycroft sighed. "I think it's because he never could outsmart me, so he took on the rest of the world." Out of anybody else's mouth it would have sounded arrogant, but from Mycroft, it just sounded like a fact.

"So why give it to me and not propose it to your brother?"

"Because I like to have some leverage, and I think the threat of taking away his access to a ready supply of games will be slightly stronger if he doesn't know of the existence of these." At these words he gestured to the papers.

"Okay, why me?" Everything until now had a reason Lestrade could understand. This he didn't. Why not go to the commissioner or even one of the many highly decorated superintendents the Met had? Why a not entirely honest cop who'd never lived up to his potential?

"Because you didn't let my brother intimidate you, because you remained calm while he was holding a knife to your throat, because you don't care about being promoted, because you care more about the end result than the way you get there." The words left Mycroft's mouth in a steady stream, and Lestrade knew every single one was meant as a compliment, and he also knew, somehow, the man in front of him wasn't in the habit of complimenting people.

"Also, I think you're the man to protect my brother where I can't." And suddenly it became clear in Lestrade's mind. Mycroft Holmes cared about only one thing, and that was protecting his brother. One day there might be space for something else, but that would also be the day Sherlock was gone.

"I don't know how to reply to that," Lestrade said. "But I'll do what I can to keep your brother safe."

"I know you will." Mycroft smiled a real smile which made Lestrade's stomach do somersaults.

"Did you see the last test match?" Mycroft switched subjects so fast Lestrade was stunned into silence for a moment.

"Erm, I don't really follow cricket," Lestrade said.

"Oh, then I'll have to tell you about it. It was spectacular," Mycroft said, handing Lestrade the plate with sandwiches, the mask suddenly gone, making him look like a normal man, and no longer like the ruler of the world.

The rest of the tea was spent in peace, talking about sports, books and the latest films. It wasn't until Mycroft's phone broke the relaxed atmosphere that Lestrade realised he was really enjoying Mycroft's company.

"I'm sorry, Gabriel," Mycroft said. Lestrade realised they had switched to first names unnoticed. "I have to return to the office."

Mycroft walked next to Lestrade into the bright sun. Mycroft's mask had returned somewhere between them getting their coats and the club door falling closed behind them. The black car came out of nowhere and floated to a standstill precisely in front of them.

"My office is just around the corner, so I'll say goodbye now." Mycroft shook Lestrade's hand warmly.

"I really enjoyed this," Lestrade said, surprising himself.

"Me too, me too. Here's my card. Call me if something happens to Sherlock.' Lestrade looked at the card. It was plain, but even its simplicity screamed expensive.

"Thanks. I will." Lestrade sat down in the car. Mycroft looked at him intensely, and Lestrade knew this was the last chance he had to ask what had been on his mind the whole time.

"Why though? Why do you protect him, risk everything? It has to be more than the fact you're brothers, because at some point you just give up, think about yourself, and judge it a lost cause." Lestrade couldn't help it; he had to know.

"It takes an addict to understand addiction, Gabriel. And I understand my brother's addiction perfectly." With these words Mycroft closed the door of the car and walked away.

* * *

Lestrade returned to his desk the next morning. He hadn't slept; thoughts of Mycroft and Sherlock had kept him awake. He put the piece of paper that gave Sherlock permission to be on any crime scene in London safely in his drawer, wondering how he was going to keep this a secret. He was suddenly Sherlock Holmes's protector and he felt like he had signed his own death warrant. His hand found the little black book blindly and in his mind he saw a name being written:

Gabriel Lestrade

Detective Inspector

Shot to the back of the head

Execution.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Lestrade hated this time of the year. All the murderers seemed to taken a holiday, and all the drug dealers happily filled the gap.

That was why he was now on his way to interview a possible witness in one of the endless number of drug cases they were to be getting at the moment. He almost started to wish for some dead bodies. The witness was staying in a rundown building, forgotten by all but the lowest dregs of society, which at least meant somebody decided he would need some back-up.

The first thing he saw when he reached the building was the police car standing empty before the house. And then he noticed a group of onlookers, staying at a distance, clearly not wanting to get involved. This was not a good sign, he realised, annoyed.

He was met by a young constable who looked rather green around the gills.

"Constable O'Brien," she said as she shook his hand, "Sir, we've three suspected ODs. Two dead on arrival. One stopped breathing just as we arrived. My partner's performing CPR." She led him through the dark and gloomy corridors of the house to two bodies. They looked right at home in this building.

"There's nobody else present?"

"No, we suspect they fled the building when the first one ODed, leaving the others to die too."

"Of course," Lestrade said sadly.

The first thing Lestrade saw when he walked into the room was O'Brien's partner performing mouth-to-mouth. Clearly it wasn't the first time, although Lestrade hoped for the man it was the first time on a junkie.

"Ambulance is on its way, Jack," the woman said. "ETA three minutes."

"Great, Vicky." The man moved to start the chest compression. This gave Lestrade the change to get a good look at the figure on the floor. An expensive shirt was ripped open, exposing a pale chest. The tanned hands of the sergeant pressed down with force. But it was the pale face Lestrade recognised. A face even paler than usual, the grey-blue eyes half opened, unfocused, full lips turned blue, and dark curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

"Damn it," Lestrade said, closing his eyes, trying to expel the picture of Sherlock, dead, from his mind.

"Something wrong, sir?" O'Brien asked

"You could say that. I know who he is, and believe me, that isn't good." He looked at Sherlock again.

"Sir?"

"I'm sorry; I've got to make a call." Lestrade felt his heart skip a beat at those words. He knew he had to call him. Not calling him would be cruel; not calling him could cost Lestrade his life. But then again, calling him could cost Lestrade his life too, he realised with a laugh, because Mycroft didn't take it lightly when somebody hurt his little brother.

"Yes?" Mycroft's voice broke through Lestrade's thoughts. It was calm and soft, but Lestrade couldn't stop feeling the pull to obey that voice.

"Mycroft, it's Sherlock."

"What's wrong?" Mycroft's voice dropped an octave and sounded almost scared.

"It looks like an OD. They're working on him now." Lestrade knew he should tell all the facts. Mycroft would know anyway.

"Cardiac arrest?" Mycroft's voice sounded resigned.

"Yes, he's uh…" Lestrade hesitated, watching the other officer do compression on Sherlock's chest.

"He isn't breathing, is he? I can hear them doing CPR in the background. Call me as soon as you know to which hospital they're taking him." Lestrade took the suddenly silent phone from his ear and stared at it, stunned.

Then a soft gasp suddenly came from the ground, and Lestrade looked down before closing his eyes for a short moment. At least Sherlock was breathing again.

"Turn him onto his side," Lestrade said as he watched Sherlock struggling to breathe. "Where's that ambulance?" he suddenly yelled at O'Brien.

"I don't know, sir. I'll have a look." Lestrade kneeled next to Sherlock, who was still unconscious. At least he was breathing now, and that was more than he had been doing a minute ago.

"Sir, sorry, would you move aside please." The paramedics pushed Lestrade aside. They immediately attached all sorts of lines to Sherlock, measuring his heart beat and putting an IV into his hand before loading him onto a stretcher.

"Where will you take him?" he asked. He had somebody to inform, after all.

"King's is the closest that has space at the moment."

"Thanks. His name's Sherlock Holmes, by the way. And I'll contact his family."

'Great, thanks," the driver said as they loaded Sherlock into the ambulance.

Lestrade started to dial and spoke immediately the moment the phone was answered.

"Mycroft, he's breathing again and on his way to King's College Hospital."

"Good. I will make sure the doctors are ready for him. I'll see you there."

"I can't," Lestrade said hesitatingly, "I've two more dead bodies on my hands. I've got to wait until my team gets here before I can even think about leaving."

"I understand," Mycroft said, sounding disappointed that Lestrade didn't drop everything to escort Sherlock to the hospital. Lestrade was sure that was what Mycroft had just done. Sherlock came before anything else in Mycroft's world, even before something as minor as World War III, for instance.

"Sir?" O'Brien said. "What do you want us to do?' And Lestrade knew he had to be the DI again, the highest-ranking officer on the scene.

"Cordon off the street, make sure nobody gets on the scene, and for heaven's sake keep the press away. I'm not in the mood to deal with them at the moment."

* * *

Two hours later Lestrade knew he should call the hospital, Mycroft, but if he was honest he didn't want to, just on the chance that Sherlock hadn't made it. He didn't think he could deal with losing Sherlock, and the thought of Mycroft's reaction, Mycroft's grieving made his heart clench painfully. Okay, he knew what that meant; he also knew they were both married to their jobs, and Mycroft's main job was taking care of Sherlock.

"Sir, it looks like a bad batch of cocaine," Donovan said, reading the preliminary report. "They cut it with something nasty." Lestrade closed his eyes at those words.

This meant there would be more dead junkies. Lestrade doubted this was the only batch. It also meant the dealer was good or, and Lestrade wasn't sure if that thought was any better, Sherlock hadn't noticed his cocaine had been contaminated. And if Sherlock made such a mistake, it said enough about his mental state.

"Do we know what it is?" Lestrade asked Donovan.

"No sir, they're still looking into it."

"We need to know. Because we still have a person who could die if we don't know what they used to poison him."

"I'm sorry, sir. Perhaps you should go to the hospital to see if he has regained consciousness. There's nothing more you can do here."

Lestrade nodded, steeling himself for what would await him at the hospital.

* * *

Things in the hospital were clearly going as Mycroft wanted, judging by the crying nurse, annoyed-looking doctor and the rather surly looking bodyguard standing next to a closed door.

"Sorry sir, you can't go in there," the bodyguard said as Lestrade moved to the door. Lestrade pulled out his warrant card, but the man still didn't move.

"I'm sorry sir. I'm not allowed to let anybody through."

"I've got to see him, please," Lestrade said, feeling angry. He needed to know how Sherlock was.

Just as he decided to simply push the man aside, the door to the room opened, and Mycroft's ever-present assistant, whose real name still eluded Lestrade, walked outside.

"Ah Inspector, we're waiting for you."

Lestrade made a move to the door, but she closed it before he reached it.

"Before we go in, I'd like to have a word with you." She took his arm and sat him down on one of the uncomfortable chairs in the hallway.

"What is it?" Lestrade said, impatiently looking at the door that separated him from Mycroft and Sherlock.

"I think," she started, "that it would be better for everybody involved if Sherlock was placed somewhere safe. Somewhere he can work on his…issues." Lestrade felt bewildered. Of course he agreed with her. He didn't know Sherlock that well, but Lestrade was certain he would not be able to force him to do anything.

"Of course, but what does it have to do with me?"

"Everything." Her smile was slightly too wide for his comfort.

"Mycroft is very important to me," she said, and Lestrade felt a stab of envy. "Not in that way, "she added, clearly having read his feelings on his face.

"Why are you telling me this?" Lestrade asked.

"Because I think he needs to talk to somebody, or get laid, or both." Lestrade felt his cheeks turn red, like a bloody teenager. The woman in front of him continued, "And since he seems to like you better than most people, you would be the best candidate."

"You want me to sleep with him?" He ignored the realisation that Mycroft actually liked him.

"Yes, please." She sounded almost desperate.

"But he won't, not as long as he has to take care of Sherlock." Lestrade said something he had known for a long time.

"Yes. So if we put Sherlock somewhere safe, Mycroft can get laid and stop his pining, and I can finally spend a night with my husband."

Lestrade groaned. "I hate you," he said, defeated.

"I know, but Mycroft will listen to you. Talk to him, get Sherlock in rehab, and enjoy your night." She stood up and walked to the door, opened it and waited for him to enter.

* * *

There were three empty beds in the room, but Lestrade's eyes were drawn to the fourth and only occupied bed and to the figure who was sitting next to it.

"Mycroft?" Mycroft's assistant said softly, and Mycroft looked up, letting go of Sherlock's hand, a smile on his face as he recognised Lestrade.

"Gabriel." He acknowledged Lestrade before turning back to Sherlock. Sherlock looked bad. He was still pale and now Lestrade could take a good look at him, he saw how thin Sherlock had become.

"How is he?" Lestrade sat down on the empty chair next to Mycroft.

"He'll live."

"You know he's very lucky," Lestrade said, placing his hand on Mycroft's.

"It doesn't feel that way." They sat in silence, looking at the too-pale figure in the bed.

"What will you do?" Lestrade asked.

"When he wakes up?"

"Yes. You know he needs help." The knuckles on Mycroft's free hand turned white as he made a fist.

"Yes, and I'll give him all the help he needs." Mycroft sounded haughty.

"Not this time," Lestrade said, coming to a decision. Mycroft looked at him, his eyes icy.

"This is between my brother and I. I would appreciate it if you wouldn't interfere, Inspector." The words were cold and controlled and would have sent even the bravest man running. Lestrade wasn't particularly brave, but he was stubborn, and like a dog holding a bone he wasn't going to let go.

"Actually, you'll find your brother's part of an ongoing investigation, and unless I've a very, very good reason to stop the investigation into your brother's involvement, I will arrest him."

"I'll break you, Inspector." Mycroft stood up suddenly, causing Lestrade's hand to fall on Sherlock's.

"I know you can, but you can't stop my whole team, all those who are currently trying to find the guy who did this to him."

Mycroft turned to him again.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "He's my brother."

"Rehab, and I'll drop the charges against him. I will also make sure he won't be a witness if we ever get the dealer."

"There will be no court case," Mycroft spoke softly, "But I agree with your terms." Mycroft looked at his assistant for a moment, and she nodded.

"I'll activate Operation Clean-Up. He'll be moved the moment he's strong enough." She picked up her phone and started a hushed conversation.

"Mycroft, Inspector," she said five minutes later and then left the room.

"Mycroft," Lestrade said, standing close to him, "you need to go home."

Mycroft closed his eyes, a pained look on his face for a moment. Then there was an inscrutable mask back on his face

"I can't." Mycroft walked away from Lestrade.

"Of course you can. He'll live, and you need rest. You can't spend the rest of your life dropping everything for him."

"Yes, no, I don't know." Mycroft looked out the window, his body tense. "I almost lost him once before. I can't lose him again."

"Just take a night off, one night. He isn't going anywhere. Get drunk, talk to somebody. Talk to me," Lestrade said. "Let's go back to my place, and I'll get you a drink."

"Isn't that usually an invitation for sex?" Mycroft turned around, an eyebrow raised.

"Only if you want it to be," Lestrade said, dashing the hopeful feeling down hard. With one last look at Sherlock, Mycroft seemed to come to a decision and walked out of the room. Lestrade couldn't follow quickly enough.

They reached the waiting car without saying a word, and the ride home too was silent too, but to Lestrade's surprise, the silence was rather comfortable. Mycroft sat slightly closer than was necessary, and their knees kept brushing at every turn, while he still kept the appearance of propriety.

"Coffee?" Lestrade asked, as he quickly picked up the dirty plates that littered his flat.

"Something stronger, if you have anything," Mycroft replied as he looked around the flat. Lestrade walked to the drinks cabinet. He pushed aside the cheap stuff until his hand found the expensive bottle of whisky he had been saving for something special. Well, having your fantasy come true was something special indeed. He rinsed the long unused and rather dusty glasses and filled them with the amber liquid.

He walked back into the room and stood still in the doorway. Mycroft had put his jacket on the back of one of the chairs and had rolled up his sleeves. For the first time since Lestrade had known him, he looked casual and relaxed. Mycroft was currently looking at Lestrade's large collection of photographs. Lestrade handed the glass to Mycroft, who took it with a grateful smile.

"Thomas?" Mycroft asked, pointing to the picture in the middle of the wall. Lestrade nodded. He loved that picture. It showed the two of them, Lestrade in uniform, a halo above his head, Thomas in his impeccable suit with two devil's horns on his. It had been New Years Eve, their anniversary, and they had been happy.

"Yeah, that wasn't long before we found out he had leukaemia." Lestrade sat down and watched Mycroft walk around the room, taking in the little details Lestrade didn't notice anymore.

"It's always difficult to lose somebody," Mycroft said, still looking at the pictures.

"Yes it is, but you know all about that, don't you?" Lestrade asked. Mycroft's body stiffened for a moment. "Talk to me?"

"So that's why you invited me," Mycroft's voice sounded amused. "Not to have your way with me, but to talk."

"Of course; why would I ever want to have my way with a good-looking man like you." They stayed in silence for a long moment, enjoying the good whisky and Lestrade really felt content.

"Did you know Sherlock almost died eight years ago?"

"No," Lestrade said, watching as Mycroft sat down beside him on the sofa.

"I always was protective, but in the way an older brother is supposed to be, not like I am now. Victor was Sherlock's friend, a few years older than him, brilliant, an engineer. They were at Uni together, in that short moment when Sherlock thought engineering would be fun. They became friends almost immediately, and of course Sherlock invited him to the holiday house to meet the family. The moment I met Victor, I fell in love, and he surprisingly did the same. We were together for almost five years. "

Lestrade sighed, having a pretty good idea where this was going.

"I had already made my name in the world, and unfortunately somebody decided it would be better if they had some leverage over me. They kidnapped and tortured Sherlock and Victor."

Lestrade felt his heart stop at those words. The thought of Sherlock being tortured made him feel ill. Mycroft too stopped talking clearly, trying to find the right words.

"Come." Lestrade beckoned Mycroft, and he moved closer to Lestrade, who pulled him into his arms. When they were installed on the sofa comfortably, Mycroft continued.

"Sherlock made it. Victor didn't. Sherlock discovered the pleasures of drugs after that. He blamed me and never forgave me, and I agree with him."

"You can't blame yourself for what somebody else did," Lestrade said.

"Of course I can, just like you still blame yourself for not making Thomas go to a doctor sooner." The words hit home, and Lestrade felt the familiar whirl of guilt in his stomach.

"We're both stupid, aren't we?" Lestrade said, a self-deprecating smirk on his face.

"Yes," Mycroft agreed.

"Let's be stupid together," Lestrade said, pulling Mycroft closer

"Gabriel, I," Mycroft started and Lestrade wondered if this would be the moment Mycroft would turn him down, would tell him he wasn't interested after all.

"I can't be in a relationship," Mycroft said, breaking Lestrade's heart.

"Because of Sherlock?"

"Yes. And because of who I am, because of what I am. And because of Victor." There was sadness in his voice and face

"I understand," Lestrade said. He did understand; just didn't agree with any of it. "What if I don't want a relationship? Just tonight or any other night you can give me, to celebrate being alive, to enjoy each other's company. Can you give me that?"

"Yes." Was the simple answer, and all Lestrade needed. Lestrade pulled the other man close, his kiss finding Mycroft's mouth waiting and willing. For now Mycroft was his. And, if only for a few hours, Sherlock and the rest of the world ceased to exist

* * *

Light slowly filtered into Lestrade's mind, and for a short moment he felt disorientated before he remembered. His hand shot out to find the bed empty and cold. He felt a short pang of disappointment. He had hoped against all odds he wouldn't wake up alone. He quickly squashed those thoughts. Mycroft would have better things to do than sleep with him. His hand moved over his bedside table to find his phone to see the time. It wasn't until his hand collided with something hot that he sat up and opened his eyes. On his table was his favourite coffee cup, and judging by its temperature it was filled with the hot, life-bringing coffee he hadn't known he needed. He sighed, cradling the cup with a smile on his face. And when he put down the cup, he discovered a piece of paper. He picked it up, reading it with trepidation.

_Gabriel,_

_I apologise for leaving without saying goodbye. But unfortunately something unavoidable came up that warranted my personal attention._

_I'm grateful for last night._

_Mycroft_

Lestrade smiled. Even after the night they'd shared, Mycroft was still the prim and proper civil servant slash ruler of the world.

That night Lestrade sat back down at his desk. His hands tentatively moved, picking up the little black book Donovan had just dropped on the paper work of Sherlock's OD. Another case that wouldn't see the light of day again: no court case, because there was no longer a suspect.

With a sigh he opened the book, found an empty page, and started to write.

ElHaj Diop,  
Drug dealer  
Shot to the back of the head  
Executed


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4****  
**  
It had become a habit; once a month they would meet, have dinner, talk about nonsense, end with a short status report on Sherlock, and if Lestrade was lucky, a drink and a bit more on his sofa. Lestrade wondered if he should get better paid for babysitting the youngest Holmes brother, but truthfully he rather enjoyed the dinners and what followed.

And tonight especially. After the series of bombings, he frankly deserved a night out. No doubt Sherlock would come back tomorrow, and the world would turn around Sherlock again. But tonight it was all about the delicious Italian food in front of him.

They talked about books, films, their deceased partners and about still missing them. They talked about rugby (both), football (Lestrade) and cricket (Mycroft). It was comfortable, just two old friends (lovers?) meeting over dinner. In an expensive restaurant, a very expensive restaurant, without prices on the menu, and with actual bodyguards cluttering up the place.

"When you said Italian, I was thinking pizza," Lestrade said, enjoying his perfectly cooked steak.

"Of course." Mycroft smirked his incredible smirk that did very wrong things to Lestrade's insides.

Lestrade smirked back, and for a fleeting moment there was something the little voice in the back of his mind said was lust. The rational part of his mind told him to shut up; this wasn't the right place or time for that. So he ignored it.

"I took the liberty of ordering some of their fabulous tiramisu for us. It's considered some of the best in the world." Lestrade decided Mycroft was right, as usual, even if he was an assuming bastard.

After dinner, two cups of espresso arrived, and so did the end of their time. Now it was Sherlock's time again, and for a second Lestrade hated him for it.

"How's my brother doing?" Mycroft asked, before sipping his espresso.

"He's had us running around for days, chasing a serial bomber."

"Has he? Interesting."

Lestrade spilled everything that had happened over the last few days, glad to finally talk to somebody who wasn't Sherlock, Donovan, or his superiors. When he was finished, Mycroft looked at him, his fingers together before his mouth in a perfect imitation of his brother.

"You talked about five pips, but there have been only four bombs."

"I know,' Lestrade said. "But according to Sherlock there hasn't been a new one."

"Would he tell you?" Mycroft asked. Lestrade felt the bottom drop from his stomach.

"He didn't."

"I'm afraid he probably did." At those words Mycroft made a small movement with his right hand, and his PA materialised instantly, startling Lestrade for a moment

"I saw him this afternoon on a case he was working for me. I thought he was acting too willingly. Khadija, his website please if you could," Mycroft said to his PA. Her fingers flew over the keys of a small netbook for a few seconds.

"Sir." She handed Mycroft the device, and Mycroft sighed before sliding it to Lestrade.

Lestrade immediately recognised the website, and to his annoyance, he saw there was a new comment he hadn't seen before.

Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. The Pool. Midnight.

If he got his hands on Sherlock, he was going to kill him. One look at Mycroft's face told Lestrade Mycroft too had rather murderous thoughts about his brother at the moment. He pulled out his phone and pushed one button. Apparently he had Sherlock on Speed Dial, Lestrade thought with a smirk.

"He isn't answering. You try calling him, and I'll see if John's with him," Mycroft said as he dialled again.

Sherlock didn't answer Lestrade either. And when Lestrade looked at Mycroft, he saw a very worried look on the man's face.

"John's phone is switched off. That's worrying."

"Can you trace their phones?"

"Already done, sir," Khadija replied, "Sherlock's travelling, and Doctor Watson's phone is…" She stopped as she looked at the small screen, an eyebrow raised.

"Sir, you'd better take a look at this." She turned the netbook to Mycroft and Lestrade, and to their surprise John's phone wasn't with Sherlock and not in Baker Street either, but instead stationary in a small alleyway.

"Find out where they went. Now."

They sat in silence as Khadija was busy talking on her phone and tapping away on the netbook.

"John left Baker Street alone, a few minutes before Sherlock put that message on his website," she said after a few minutes. "He stayed in sight of the CCTV until he hit a blind spot, here." She pointed to the small map on the screen. "Either he knew there was a blind spot there and stepped in a car, or…"

"Or somebody took him. Damn,'" Mycroft said. Lestrade was fascinated. Mycroft suddenly appeared angry, annoyed and oh so human.

"That would explain why his phone is off," Lestrade said as a dark thought entered his mind, "The bomber used hostages before. He took John, didn't he?"

"Find out where that pool is and get extraction team four ready," Mycroft said to Khadija.

"Yes, sir." She turned around and started to speak in her phone softly.

"I have to go," Mycroft said, "I'll send a car for you if you want to go home."

"Oh no, I'm not going to stand by while your brother gets himself killed."

"Thank you," Mycroft said. "I think we need to continue this in the car; we seem to be drawing some unwanted attention." At those words Lestrade suddenly realised they were still in the restaurant, and all eyes were aimed at their table.

They quickly left, without paying, Lestrade noticed, and sat down in the car in silence. Five minutes later Khadija sat down beside them.

"Extraction team is ready, but I haven't located the pool yet. And I think Sherlock's phone is currently at the bottom of the Thames."

"He realised I would be tracing him," Mycroft said. "The idiot."

"Mycroft, I might know which pool he meant." Mycroft and Khadija whirled around to him, looking at him in surprise.

"How?" Mycroft said.

"What do you know about Carl Powers?" Lestrade asked. "He drowned, didn't he?"

"Of course," Mycroft said and told Khadija an address before sitting down deep in the seat.

"It's 11:45, the pool is twenty minutes away, and the extraction team will not be there for at least another thirty minutes. We'll have to go in ourselves.'"

"What?" Lestrade said. "Are you crazy? He probably covered the place with bombs, snipers..."

"Yes, but that shouldn't be a problem. My chauffeur and bodyguard are ex-SAS officers, and Khadija could kill a fly a mile away with one shot and could incapacitate you with one finger, and you are a trained police officer with an excellent record on the shooting range."

"And you?" Lestrade said, angry at the foolhardy idea Mycroft had.

"I…know how to defend myself." At those words he pressed his hand to the seat in front of him, and a small hatch opened. Mycroft pulled two handguns from a compartment in the car and handed them to Lestrade. He also pulled out something that looked like a bulletproof vest.

"Put this on."

"What about you?" Lestrade asked as he watched Mycroft settle back into the seat.

"I'm already wearing mine," he replied.

"How?" Lestrade looked Mycroft over and didn't see the bulkiness he expected from a bulletproof vest.

"After the fifth assassination attempt, I decided wearing protection at all times would be prudent, and I wasn't going to be uncomfortable, so my clothes are made from a special bullet and knife resistant material. Not available for public use, yet."

Lestrade sighed. Apparently it wasn't just Sherlock who had a death wish, and Lestrade wasn't even going to ask about assassination attempts.

"Sir, I've brought up the floor plan of the pool." Khadija handed Mycroft her netbook, and he looked at it for some time.

"They'll probably meet near the pool itself, knowing Sherlock and his taste for the melodramatic. So Moriarty will probably put snipers here, and here. Also I would expect them here all around the stands." At those words Mycroft pointed to several points on the blueprints.

"We'll enter here. It will give us a view of the whole stands and most of the pool area." Mycroft sounded too practiced at this.

"How do you know all this?" Lestrade finally asked.

"I wasn't always a bureaucrat. I started out in a slightly more hands-on role," Mycroft replied with a smile.

"Sir," Khadija said sharply.

"Ah yes, I shouldn't be telling you this. Let's just say this isn't the first time I've planned a retrieval mission."

They reached the pool at a few minutes past twelve. The pool was dark, and it was clear Sherlock was either already inside or wouldn't be coming.

Lestrade dropped his jacket in the car and adjusted the bulletproof vest. Mycroft's bodyguard and chauffeur checked their guns, and Khadija's hands looked surprisingly empty without her BlackBerry.

Mycroft, on the other hand, looked like he always did, like he was going for a casual stroll, his umbrella by his side

"Mycroft, do you ever leave that umbrella behind?" Lestrade asked as Mycroft walked calmly swinging his umbrella.

"No," Mycroft replied, and Khadija let out a soft laugh.

The pool was empty, no guards or sentries, and they reached the stands without any resistance. Mycroft's sharp eyes were the first to notice the snipers.

"There, there and there, and there are five more on the other side," he whispered to Lestrade. He signalled his two men to move around to the others. Khadija joined Lestrade as he moved to the one closest to them and the one between them and the view of the pool.

Khadija was the first to reach the sniper, and with one move she pinched a nerve in his shoulder, and the man went down without a sound. They moved to the edge of the stand and looked down on the pool area. There were three people besides the pool. Sherlock, who was aiming a gun at a stranger. Lestrade didn't want to know where Sherlock had got himself a gun. The stranger was probably the bomber, Moriarty. But it was John who made him gasp softly.

John was covered in large packages connected with wires. John was indeed the fifth hostage.

"You go on. Take out the rest. I'll keep my eye on them." Mycroft aimed his gun at Moriarty. Lestrade and Khadija moved on silently, taking out the snipers they encountered one by one.

Then suddenly Moriarty turned around and walked away. Sherlock dropped the gun and was on John in a second. He removed the vest and slid it away before picking up his gun again and leaving the pool area. John had sat down with his back to the stalls.

"What just happened?" Lestrade whispered to Khadija.

"I don't know, but I doubt it's over," she said gesturing to the snipers who were still standing at the ready. About half of them were still standing. "We need to go on."

Sherlock returned just as Lestrade used his gun to hit another sniper on the back of his head.

The scene that unfolded in front of them made Lestrade's heart sing. For the first time since Lestrade had known Sherlock, he saw true emotion in the man's words and actions. And if he was honest, the world seemed to be a bit brighter. Although he would have a stern conversation with Sherlock about gun safety, because the idiot would probably blow his brains out otherwise. Mycroft suddenly appeared at Lestrade's side, looking too happy for the situation.

They moved on, and just as they reached another of the snipers, they saw him move his hand to his ear listening intently. And he aimed his gun at Sherlock again. Khadija was on the man before Lestrade could assess what was going on. And he was down, his laser dot still aimed at John.

"We need to take out the rest now," Mycroft said, "because Sherlock is about to do something stupid." Just as Lestrade, Khadija and Mycroft made a move for the last two snipers, Sherlock pulled the trigger. In an instant Lestrade and Khadija pulled Mycroft down, shielding him from the blast.

The blast left Lestrade's ears ringing, and it took him a few seconds to realise the building hadn't collapsed around his ears. Mycroft pushed Lestrade away and ran to the edge of the stands.

Down below there was a bit more damage. The blast had knocked down some of the stalls, but that wasn't what drew their attention. On the floor were three figures. Moriarty had been thrown back and started to move again, but it was John and Sherlock Lestrade was looking at. John was lying on top of Sherlock, and it was clear he had pushed Sherlock down, but it was the red stain slowly forming between them that worried Lestrade. At least one of them had been hit. Then to his relief he saw Sherlock's hand move.

"He's shot," Lestrade said as he rushed to the stairs. Mycroft and Khadija were on his heels, and they reached the two men together. Khadija rushed passed them and placed her gun at Moriarty's head. Stopping the man from escaping.

Lestrade and Mycroft carefully turned John around away from Sherlock. Mycroft moved over to Sherlock immediately, but there was a worrying amount of blood on John's face, and for a moment Lestrade was afraid it was too late for the good doctor. Then he heard a faint groan coming from him, and Lestrade was beside him looking over the head wound. The bullet had dragged a stripe across John's left temple. The head wound bled badly, but wasn't deadly.

"How's Sherlock?" he asked as he started to look John over further.

"Hit in the shoulder. I suspect the bullet went via John's head before it hit Sherlock."

"John just has a head wound." Lestrade sighed. He looked at Mycroft who had removed his coat and pushed it down on Sherlock's shoulder hard.

"He's losing a lot of blood." At those words the pool was suddenly bathed in light, and several guns were aimed at them.

"Stand down," Khadija said in a commanding tone. She immediately started to order people to clean up the snipers. Then one of the men pushed Lestrade away from John and started to bandage up his head. Another tried to move Mycroft away, but Mycroft only had eyes for Sherlock.

"Sir?" the man asked tentatively, "if you let me…"

"Mycroft," Lestrade said, and took Mycroft's hands and moved him away gently.

They both looked as the man worked on Sherlock. It wasn't until he heard Donovan's voice arguing with Mycroft's men that he realised the emergency services had arrived.

The rest went by as in a dream. Mycroft allowed them to load Sherlock and John into ambulances, and the rest of the team was told to stand down and allow the police on the scene.

Ten minutes later Lestrade left the building, trusting the officers on the scene could handle it all. He knew Donovan would put up a good fight against Mycroft's men if they dared to take over the crime scene completely. He personally had two injured man to take care of.

He walked around the corner towards the black car and stopped dead in his tracks. There in front of him was the last of the snipers, the one they apparently missed. And he was holding a gun.

Lestrade stared at the red dot on his chest. And sighed. He knew that even with a bullet proof vest he wouldn't survive getting shot at this range.

"Would you mind lowering that gun?" Mycroft's voice came from besides the man, and even in this situation Mycroft sounded unbearably posh. The red dot didn't move.

"Fine; I did warn you." And suddenly, out of nowhere, a thin steel blade was pushed against the man's chin.

The man dropped his gun in surprise as he looked down. The sight was rather ridiculous. A posh, well-dressed man pushing a sword against your chin would stun even the most professional assassin. Mycroft's men used the man's surprise and pushed the sniper to the ground, incapacitating him efficiently.

"Is that…?" Lestrade asked softly, staring at the blade incredulously.

"What do you think, inspector?"

"That's the most ridiculous, cheesy thing I have ever seen."

"I told you I could take care of myself."

"But that's a sword, a sword in your umbrella. Real life doesn't work that way," Lestrade protested.

"Blame Khadija. That woman watches too much TV, and when she discovered I was a world class fencer, she gave it to me. Never had cause to use it though." At those words Mycroft sheathed the sword again and walked away, swinging the thing.

"Are you coming, Gabriel? I have to escort my brother to the hospital again." With a sigh, Lestrade ran after the man.

* * *

The news that Moriarty had disappeared somewhere between the pool and the police station came just as they were told Sherlock and John would both make a full recovery. Mycroft seemed rather uninterested in the fact that the criminal responsible for Sherlock's situation was no longer in police hands. All he had eyes for was Sherlock.

If Lestrade was honest, he knew the fact that Mycroft was unconcerned should make him worry, and he should probably drag Mycroft into his office to have a talk. But as always, he didn't.

Lestrade spent the next hour shouting orders into his phone, making sure his men were okay, and making sure John Watson was placed next to Sherlock to make all their lives easier. It was only after he found himself a cup of coffee and some determination, he made a decision.

"Mycroft, can I have a word?" Lestrade asked softly.

"Of course." Mycroft let go of Sherlock's hand and joined Lestrade at the window.

"Should I be worried about Moriarty escaping?" Mycroft didn't react, just stared out of the window for a long time.

"I could have stopped him," Mycroft suddenly said. "I've been aware of him for some time, but politics made me hesitant to act."

"You mean you could've stopped this? All of this, the bombings, the deaths?" Lestrade felt anger. He might be a bent cop, but innocent people had died, and Mycroft had stood by watching.

"Yes.' Mycroft's answer was blunt. "But like I said, there's a bigger picture, and if I had removed him earlier, more lives would have been lost."

"But you're going to act now?"

"He hurt Sherlock, so I can't ignore him any longer. Although I can't imagine Sherlock being happy about it, but we'll add that to list of reasons why he hates me." The last words were said sadly.

"Can I expect a body shortly?" Lestrade said, his voice controlled, anger coiled in his stomach.

"Perhaps. Dead bodies always send such an interesting message, don't they?" At those words Mycroft sat down at Sherlock's side again, ignoring Lestrade. Lestrade kept his eyes on the brothers. Still fuming, still debating whether it was worth his career to drag Mycroft back to the station and throw him in a cell for the night. In the end he sighed and sat down next to Mycroft and Sherlock. Looking at the pale figure, not certain how he felt about the man beside him. Then he felt a soft pressure on his knee. He gently placed his hand on Mycroft's and gave a small squeeze. Lestrade knew things weren't good, and they might never be, but he took what he could get for now.

They sat in silence for a long time until a soft cough woke them out of their thoughts. Khadija was standing behind them looking all too collected and calm.

"Yes," Mycroft sighed. He removed his hand and stood up stiffly. He started to walk away, but changed his minded halfway through and placed his hand on Lestrade's shoulder.

"Go home, Gabriel. You're no use to him exhausted." Lestrade stood up, looking up at Mycroft.

"Join me?" he asked against his better judgement

"I'm sorry, Gabriel, I can't, not today." Mycroft truly looked apologetic as he threw one last look at Sherlock. Lestrade felt himself tremble; whether it was with anger, disappointment or sheer exhaustion he didn't know, but he knew that if he didn't walk away from Mycroft now, he would say things that would probably get him killed. Or at least in big trouble.

He turned and walked away. He knew Mycroft would be back, they would have their dinners again, their talks, they would still end up in Lestrade's bed; but Lestrade knew Mycroft would always be Sherlock's.

* * *

Lestrade closed yet another case, the tenth, that day. After everything that had happened the last week, this felt like yet another victory. He wondered how many more cases they could close after today. He knew the world had become just a bit safer. He knew he had just one other thing to do. And for once, he was going to enjoy it. He picked up the little black book and wrote:

James Moriarty  
Criminal mastermind  
Shot to the back of the head  
Executed


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

In the end it had taken only one bullet, one single bullet.

They came running around the corner into the alleyway, the blue light of the police cars lighting up the alley, casting eerie shadows. The shot rang, making everything freeze for a moment. Lestrade felt his heart stop when he saw a figure double over before collapsing on the ground.

John had been the first to reach Sherlock, turning him over onto his back, a red stain slowly forming on Sherlock's abdomen. John frantically pressed his hands into Sherlock's stomach with force.

"Sherlock, talk to me," he yelled out.

"It hurts." Sherlock's voice was soft with pain.

"I know, just hold on. The ambulance will be here any moment. Everything will be okay." Lestrade wondered how as he watched blood blossom through John's fingers.

"You always were a bad liar," Sherlock whispered, his hand taking one of John's in his. The wound bled on steadily between the fingers of John's other hand. John let out a strangled laugh. "You know I'm dying." Sherlock brought John's hand to his face, holding it there for a moment, before his own hand dropped uselessly to the ground.

"You're not dying. I can't let you." John's bloody hand cradled Sherlock's face, John watching as Sherlock's whole body trembled in pain.

"I can feel my stomach acid burn my insides. Of course I'm dying." Sherlock's voice wavered, and Lestrade felt his heart stop. They watched as Sherlock's eyes slid closed, nobody wanting to speak, nobody wanting to acknowledge what was happening.

"Sherlock, keep talking. You have to stay awake." John gently tapped Sherlock's face, and Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, opening to a slit.

"Why?" He managed to sound petulant even when he was dying.

"You'll go into shock." John's voice was calm and collected, but Lestrade could see his body tremble.

"And why would that be a problem; are we out of blankets?" Lestrade let out a strangled laugh, which was halted abruptly by Sherlock's next words. "I'm dying; I don't think we have to worry about shock."

"You can't die. You are Sherlock Holmes. We need you. I need you." John sounded suddenly desperate.

"I'll miss you too," Sherlock said, his voice slurring. "Tell Mycroft I'm sorry." Sherlock's eyes closed, and he would not open them again.

Lestrade immediately sprang into action, trying to block out the sobbing of the man clutching Sherlock's body to him. He walked to the figure pushed to the ground, his hand behind his back held together with flexicuffs that were just a trifle too tight, cutting into the man's wrist.

"Get him up," he snarled. The man was pulled up, and Lestrade was on him in an instant, his hand around the man's throat like a vice.

"You are in trouble," he whispered into the man's face. He swung his fist and was caught midswing by a hand clamped around his wrist. The movement was so unexpected that he let the man go and swung around. From the corner of his eye, he saw the man slide down the wall, gasping for breath, a hand around his throat.

"I'd rather not have to use my influence to get you out of prison for police brutality." Mycroft's voice sounded amused. Lestrade looked at him and watched the smile slide from Mycroft's face.

"Sherlock," Lestrade stammered.

"Where?" Mycroft asked, his hand tightening painfully around Lestrade's wrist, but before Lestrade could reply, Mycroft let go suddenly and walked into the alley.

Lestrade stood still for a moment, regaining his composure before slowly following Mycroft. Part of him wanted to stop Mycroft and hold him, because this was going to break the man's heart.

Just as he reached the corner, Mycroft reached Sherlock's body, which was still being held by John.

Lestrade suddenly had the urge to send all the people around him away. All those gawping at the little scene before them. He couldn't have them watch what would be an extremely private moment. Mycroft knelt next to the body of his baby brother, not caring that he was destroying his expensive suit. He raised a trembling hand, and his fingers pushed the curls from Sherlock's forehead before carefully cradling his face.

Lestrade could feel Mycroft's assistant come up closely beside him. He could feel a tremble run through her body at the sight of an extremely intimate moment.

Mycroft lowered his head so that his forehead touched Sherlock's, his mouth moving, whispering. John's hand suddenly covered Mycroft's, squeezing it gently before dropping his hand again.

Mycroft slowly moved. He dropped a gentle kiss on Sherlock's forehead and stood up, squeezing John's shoulder before walking back to Lestrade.

His assistant was beside him in a flash, and a lively conversation started. She was typing everything on her BlackBerry.

After a few minutes she nodded, and Mycroft turned to Lestrade.

"I have arranged a car that will bring him to St Bart's. Molly Hooper will do the autopsy. I want a copy of all the evidence and reports you gather. If there are any developments, you will notify my PA. I have a funeral to arrange." At those words Mycroft started to walk past him. Lestrade wanted to say something, needed to say something, but as he opened his mouth, Mycroft spoke.

"Thank you." He looked straight into Lestrade's eyes, and Lestrade knew words weren't necessary. Lestrade couldn't stop himself and squeezed the man's shoulder for a second as he walked past, and Lestrade almost thought he imagined Mycroft's hand covering his and squeezing back. The moment passed by all too quickly. Mycroft's PA smiled gently at him before both disappeared into the car.

Lestrade sighed, turned around, and started to bark out orders just to take his mind of Mycroft, Sherlock, and the end of the world as he knew it.

* * *

Lestrade knew the next day would be bad, and he had been right. The witness statements were bad; interviewing John had been worse.

He watched John enter, accepting condolences from everybody he encountered. His face was set hard like the soldier he was. Sarah was at his side, her eyes red-rimmed. With a jolt Lestrade realised that she had known Sherlock just as long as she had known John, and while they might not have been friends (Sherlock didn't have friends, John excepted) they both accepted and like each other well enough.

The interview was painful, but they both shook hands at the end with a smile, remembering him. He had spent the rest of the day writing until the moment that Donovan had run into his office, and he knew the day had just taken a turn for the worse

"Sir, bad news; there's been a breakout in the holding cells, four people have escaped." Lestrade closed his eyes. He didn't have to hear what else she was going to say; he already knew.

"Robson?"

"Yep." Donovan looked apologetic

"How?" he growled

"As far as we have been able to determine, two men came in, shut down the live CCTV feed to the observation gallery, overrode the cell locks and left under the threat of guns. Luckily they didn't shut down the CCTV completely, so we caught them on film."

"Show me." He knew he sounded harsher than she deserved, but he cared about only one thing. Donovan handed him one of the evidence screens. He pushed the Play button and swiped it until he reached the right moment.

The CCTV footage showed a scared Robson being pushed by one of the masked men. It was clear they weren't there for him; that he was just an unlucky bystander. An unlucky bystander that was now out there. Free, unpunished for what he had done.

"Couldn't they have taken somebody else? I don't know, there enough minor criminals in there that deserve to be kidnapped," he said as he slammed the portable screen on the desk, not caring for the ominous scratching sound it made.

"I'm going out; call me as soon as they've found him." Lestrade stood up and pulled his coat from the back of his chair. He had to inform Mycroft. If somebody could find Robson it was him. What Mycroft would do with Robson was another matter, and he really didn't want to think about that right now.

He wasn't surprised when a big black car appeared out of nowhere the moment he walked out of sight of the Yard. He got in. To his surprise the car was empty: no Mycroft, no assistant. Just a silent driver.

He groaned. This wasn't good, this wasn't good at all. He steeled himself again, this time ready to grovel in front of the most powerful man in the world. Because there was no doubt in Lestrade's mind that Mycroft was going to be pissed off, and if Mycroft was pissed off, people died. And Lestrade was going to be in the direct firing line.

They arrived in one of Mycroft's gloomy empty warehouses, one he seemed to have a ready supply of.

"Gabriel." Mycroft welcomed him, his face unreadable, his voice pleasant. That alone made the hairs on Lestrade's neck stand up.

"We need to talk," he continued as Lestrade didn't answer.

"Yeah, I was afraid you were going to say that," Lestrade replied.

"Gabriel, I'm going to give you one chance, one chance only." Mycroft suddenly sounded cold, a controlled fury in his whole body, his eyes reading Lestrade like he was an interesting specimen under his microscope.

"One chance?" Lestrade strangled out, feeling truly scared now.

"One chance to walk away. To leave this behind." His hand made a gesture that seemed to encompass the whole world. "To leave me behind," he added.

"I understand," Lestrade said, swallowing his fear down, but standing his ground. He knew he was staying. He should have protected Sherlock. It was his job after all. And he hadn't even been able to keep his killer prisoner. He would take whatever Mycroft would do to him.

"Good," Mycroft walked to the car and opened the door, waiting for Lestrade to enter.

Lestrade sat back; his eyes closed trying to keep his mind of what Mycroft would do him, to keep his mind from the little black book that might contain his name soon.

When the car stopped ten minutes later in another deserted warehouse, Lestrade was welcomed by the sight of Mycroft's assistant, no BlackBerry in her hand, but instead a sleek black gun, safety still on. Lestrade swallowed, stepping out. Mycroft silently accepted the gun. The woman talking softly in to his ear.

"Thank you." Mycroft smiled his genuine smile at her, the one he reserved only for Lestrade in the early morning just before he would leave to start another war.

Lestrade looked around. In the middle of the room was an empty chair, restraints ready. And he swallowed again. Torture and then death? He wondered to himself.

"Bring him in." Mycroft's voice broke through Lestrade's thoughts, and to his surprise, a bound, blindfolded and gagged man was brought in. A man he knew, he realised with a jolt.

Robson.

The man seemed uninjured, although his trousers were soiled. Lestrade couldn't blame him as he suddenly understood everything.

It had been Robson they had been after, after all. He should have known; the escape had Mycroft's fingerprints all over it. Then another realization hit him. Mycroft hadn't brought him here to be the victim: he was here to be a witness. Robson was pushed on the chair and tied up again, his gag removed.

"Do you know why you are here?" Mycroft asked pleasantly

"I... I…don't know," the man stammered, his blindfold slowly turning wet; he was crying.

"You are here to die," Mycroft said, the gun still at his side.

"Die?" Robson's voice broke

"Remove the blindfold. I want him to look his killer in the face." Robson looked at Mycroft, his eyes on the gun, and Lestrade saw the man turn ashen. For a moment Lestrade thought that Mycroft would scare the man to death. Then Robson looked around the room, his eyes locking on Lestrade, realisation making them wide as he recognised Lestrade.

"Please, help me,' he begged. "You're the police. You can't let him do this." There was so much desperation in his voice that Lestrade knew he should do something, because the man was right; he was a police officer, and he should stop this. But he didn't; he just stood there and watched. He had been in Mycroft's pocket for too long already to do anything else.

"He isn't going to help you. You killed his friend. You killed my brother. And I don't take it lightly when people touch what is mine." At those words Mycroft put the gun to the man's forehead. "I could just kill you like this. It would be quick."

"Or perhaps here." He pushed the gun into Robson's stomach. "Do you know it can take people fifteen minutes to die when a bullet hits their stomach? It is an extremely painful way to die. Those stomach acids, they burn. You shot Sherlock in the stomach, didn't you? Perhaps this would be a good punishment, make you feel what he felt. At least he had his best friend with him. You'll die alone." Mycroft walked away, and Lestrade wondered how he was going to torture the man more. The guy was just some petty thief that had had the bad fortune to kill the best-protected man in the world, and now he was going to pay with his life.

"Untie him," Mycroft said, standing with his back to Robson. Lestrade saw relief wash over the man, and Lestrade felt his heart sink. Mycroft wasn't going to let the man go. Torturing him wouldn't be enough revenge for Mycroft. Of that Lestrade was certain.

Robson stood looking bewildered, unsure what to do next. The choice was taken from him when he was pushed to his knees by Mycroft's assistant. Mycroft walked to him, standing behind the man.

"You don't deserve this," he said as he pushed the gun into the man's neck, forcing the man's head down. Lestrade closed his eyes, knowing what would follow. The shot rang through the empty warehouse, making Lestrade jump slightly. When he opened his eyes, he watched Mycroft hand the gun over to his assistant and walk to Lestrade. Something had changed in the man, and suddenly it hit Lestrade. Mycroft, for the first time in the fifteen years Lestrade had known him, was free. Free of the burden that had been his brother.

Mycroft stood suddenly still in front of him, capturing his eyes with his own.

"Gabriel, I said I would give you one chance to walk away. This is it." Mycroft took a few steps back, giving Lestrade one last look before sitting down in the car.

And then Lestrade knew what Mycroft was offering. Mycroft was offering a life with him. A life that would contain this; assassinations, murder, intrigue, vigilant killings. And he knew that if he sat down in the car, he would be tied to Mycroft until his death, natural or at the hands of Mycroft Holmes. So Gabriel Lestrade did the only thing he could.

The next day a new entry appeared in the little black book. It was on the last page, a closure for all of them. The blank page before it was perhaps the biggest tribute to a man like no other, a man who defied all logic, a man who could never be captured in a few words on a page between victims.

Lestrade traced the faint lines left by pens pushed too hard onto the paper before reading the last entry one more time. The book would disappear soon, and he reread the last words before leaving for home and the most dangerous man alive.

* * *

Michel Robson

Petty thief

Shot to the back of the head

Executed


End file.
